“On one hand I shall belong to one woman.  Her house shall be my house, her friends shall be my friends; the others, the beautiful, fascinating others, will cease to dream of me, I shall no longer be their ideal.  On the other hand I shall gain the nicest woman, and surely it must be right to take, though it be for life, the nicest woman in the world.  She will supply what is wanting in my character; together we shall attain a goal; alone I shall attain none.  In twenty years I shall be a foolish old bachelor whom no one cares for.  I have stated both cases—­on which side does the balance turn?”

The balance still stood at equipoise.  A formless moon soared through a white cloud wrack, and broken gold lay in the rising tide.  The sonorous steps of the policeman on the bridge startled him, and obeying the impulse of the moment, he gave the officer the letter, asking him to post it.  He waited for some minutes, as if stupefied, pursuing the consequences of his act even into distant years.  No, he would not send the letter just yet.  But the officer had disappeared in some by-streets, and followed by the spirits of future loves, Mike ran till he reached the post-office, where he waited in nervous apprehension.  Presently steps were heard in the stillness, and getting between him and the terrible slot, Mike determined to fight for his letter if it were refused him.

“I met you just now on the bridge and asked you to post a letter; give it back to me, if you please.  I’ve changed my mind.”

The officer looked at him narrowly, but he took the proffered shilling, and returned the letter.

“That was the narrowest squeak I’ve had yet,” thought Mike.

When he returned to the cottage he found Frank and Thigh still together.

“Mr. Beacham Brown,” said Thigh, “is now half-proprietor of the Pilgrim.  The papers are signed.  I came down quite prepared.  I believe in settling things right off.  When Mrs. Escott comes in, we will drink to the new Pilgrim, or, if you like it better, to the old Pilgrim, who starts afresh with a new staff and scrip, and a well-filled scrip too,” he added, laughing vacuously.

“I hope,” said Mike, “that Holloway is not the shrine he is journeying towards.”

“I hope your book won’t bring us there.”

“Why, I didn’t know you were going to continue—­”

“Oh, yes,” said Thigh; “that is to say, if we can come to an arrangement about the purchase,” and Thigh lapsed into a stony silence, as was his practice when conducting a bargain.

“By God!” Mike thought, “I wish we were playing at ecarte or poker.  I’m no good at business.”

“Well,” he said at last, “what terms do you propose to offer me?”

Thigh woke up.

“I never bargain,” he said.  “I’ll give you Beacham Brown’s cheque for a hundred and fifty if you will give me a receipt for three hundred,” and he looked inquiry out of his small, pale blue eyes, and Mike noticed the diamond ring on the hand that caressed his moustache.